


The Word of Cod

by dafna



Series: Sitcom fics [1]
Category: Yes Minister
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafna/pseuds/dafna
Summary: In which Jim Hacker gets forceful about fish, Sir Humphrey tries to protect a Scottish cricket pitch and Bernard sends out for the posh biscuits.
Series: Sitcom fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135649
Comments: 38
Kudos: 46
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Word of Cod

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarina/gifts).



> This takes place in the early 1980s, but apparently needs a small trigger warning for Brexit. Sorry? 
> 
> Thanks to [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed) for the Britpick.

_From the diaries of the Right Hon. James Hacker MP_

**11th May**

For once, I started the week in a good mood. I got through all my boxes on the Saturday and had the whole of the Sunday to spend with my family. They weren’t around, as it turns out, but I made myself some toast and then wandered down to the local. Or what would be my local if I was ever home before closing time.

I was expounding upon this to Bernard, along with my thoughts about our licensing laws, when I began to feel I didn’t have his complete attention. I paused, and that seemed to reset him somehow. 

‘Yes, Minister,’ Bernard said, blinking his eyes rapidly. ‘Very good. Might we move on to your meeting with the American ambassador tomorrow. Sir Humphrey will be here shortly and …’

‘That’s the problem with politics today, Bernard,’ I sighed. ‘All this meeting with diplomats and City types. Caviar and champagne.’ 

Bernard explained that as the ambassador was coming to the Department, we would be having tea. He promised to look for biscuits, though. 

‘It will all still be deathly dull, whatever we’re drinking,’ I said. ‘Not at all like this conversation I had yesterday at the pub.’ I saw Bernard’s eyes start to flicker but I pressed on to tell him about the man I had met who was down from Scotland to visit his sister. 

‘It was fascinating,’ I told Bernard. ‘All about whitefish harvests and his cousin’s boat and the price of diesel. And apparently they hate Brussels just as much as we do,’ I said. ‘I mean, I never really thought of myself as having much in common with those people …’

Bernard asked if I meant the Scottish people. ‘Fishermen,’ I chided him. ‘Fishermen.’ 

‘Yes, Minister.’

I continued. ‘I mean, when was the last time you actually talked to a fisherman?’ 

‘Why just this weekend,’ said Sir Humphrey, entering the office and the conversation at the same time, as is his habit. 

‘You?’ I tried to picture Sir Humphrey in voluntary conversation with a stout fellow such as my pub companion. Or anyone who lived north of Sheffield, for that matter. 

‘Yes, Minister,’ Sir Humphrey said. ‘I spent three glorious hours on one of the finest beats on the Itchen on Saturday. Had a splendid ghillie named John.’

I stared at Humphrey for a second. However, Bernard, like nature, abhors a vacuum and so started gibbering on about trout and dry flies and then did his best impression of a fish struggling to get free from a hook. I decided to ignore this.

‘Not fishing, fishing!’ I said to Sir Humphrey. ‘I mean real fishermen, not fat City chaps in tweed caps. You know, cod, mackerel … and the other ones.’

‘Ah,’ said Sir Humphrey, sitting down. ‘Surely that’s the domain of the Department of Industry?’ 

‘The fishing industry is important to all of us,’ I said sternly. ‘It is part of the British way of life,’ I said, warming to my topic. ‘It is one of the backbones of our nation and we need to support it!’

Bernard asked if I needed a brace. I continued to ignore him.

‘Well, Minister,’ Sir Humphrey said. ‘Public houses are all very fine and of course I’m pleased you have so much free time on your hands.’ He glanced sharply at Bernard, who looked apologetic. ‘But speaking of Scotland,’ Sir Humphrey continued, ‘I wanted to make sure you had time to read the briefing notes for tomorrow’s meeting with the American ambassador.’

I waved my hand. ‘Yes, yes, they want to build an oil refinery in Fife somewhere and they need us to sign some administrative waiver. No problem. Lots of jobs. Great stuff.’

Sir Humphrey explained that on the contrary, there was very much a problem. Apparently some parts of Fife were eminently suitable for an oil refinery and some parts were eminently not. It was my job, he said, to tell the ambassador that the American company planning the project would have to find a more appropriate site. 

I pointed out to him that the proposed refinery was on an excellent site, what with two marginal constituencies right nearby. Sir Humphrey sighed and said that there were other considerations more important than grubby politics. He then sighed again, which was a bit much, I thought.

Bernard coughed. ‘I believe Sir Humphrey is referring to the unfortunate impact the development would have on the Royal Dunfermline Cricket Club.’

‘And what impact is that?’ I asked.

‘Well, they’re planning to put the refinery in the middle of the pitch,’ Bernard explained. ‘So quite a deep impact, one would think.’ He closed his hands together and pressed down as if setting off TNT, then raised his arms in the air, miming an explosion.

‘I didn’t know the Scots played cricket,’ I said. Bernard opened his mouth at this point but I waved him silent and continued. Surely, I said to Sir Humphrey, this had already gone through all the local land use permissions and so on and that minor waiver we were being asked to approve was a mere formality.

Sir Humphrey conceded that it was a formality, and then went into some rubbish about nothing being mere and Latin roots and pure shapes and by the time I surfaced again he had got to the main point, which was that the locals were all for the refinery.

‘Indeed,’ Sir Humphrey said, shaking his head. ‘I believe the club is planning to merge with another one in the next town and spend the funds from the American company on …’ he paused, as if barely able to pronounce the words he was about to say … ‘ _an aquatics centre_.’

I pointed out that this meant we were back to my original assessment of there being no problem. Sir Humphrey replied that while of course we always welcomed investments in the North Sea oil industry from overseas interests (unless they’re Norwegian, Bernard helpfully added) some things remained sacred.

‘No one puts a higher value on the importance of private partnership working hand in hand with government than I,’ Sir Humphrey said. ‘But after all, if we allow ancient centres of sport …’

‘It was built in 1957,’ Bernard offered.

‘ _Ancient centres of sport_ to give way to the rampages of big business, that’s surely in no one’s best interest.’

‘It’s in the interests of two marginal constituencies,’ I said firmly. ‘Anyway, why is the American ambassador coming here over this? Can’t I just sign the Article 5 Section whatsit and hand it over?’

Sir Humphrey folded his arms. Bernard glanced over at him and then explained that the form had actually been due a few weeks ago but the interdepartmental committee assessing the situation hadn’t come to a decision yet. Or even met yet, apparently. The ambassador, meanwhile, was not a patient man, and moreover, his wife’s brother was on the board of the American company in question. There had been many phone calls to the Department recently. Including some very loud ones.

I now understood what this was really about. Sir Humphrey had arranged to drown the company in so much bureaucracy we’d discover oil in the Thames before the Americans got their refinery and the Dunfermline club got its aquatics centre. And I was the muggins who got to tell that to the ambassador. 

I sighed and asked what else the week had in store. Bernard reminded me that I was addressing a trade industry dinner that evening. He handed me my speech and then he and Sir Humphrey left.

I put on my glasses and read through the speech. It was the usual four pages of our great industries, pride in Britain, etc. What this speech needed, I thought, was more of a man on the street perspective. Something about the plight of the ordinary fisherman and our need to support these men. These men who go out to battle with the oceans so that we in Britain can continue to eat the food of our forefathers. And foremothers, of course. I picked up a pen.

[ _Editor’s note: We have been unable to locate a transcript of the revised version of this speech, but press coverage from the time suggests that Hacker’s enthusiasm for military metaphors got away from him. While the original speech refers to ‘forceful support of British industry,’ Hacker spoke of the need to use force to support British industry. The fishing industry in particular, he said, must be backed by all the sea power at Britain’s command. It was time, he said, for Britain to rule the waves once more._ ]

** 12th May **

The papers showed far more interest in my little trade dinner speech than I expected. I beamed as I showed off the headlines to Bernard: SUPPORT OUR FISHERMEN, HACKER SAYS. GOV'T: FISHING COMES FIRST. And, my personal favorite: COD FOR HACKER, ENGLAND AND SAINT GEORGE.

Bernard said that surely it should be Scotland, not England, but yes, the speech had certainly made an impact and incidentally, had I had occasion to speak with the Foreign Secretary since yesterday. I replied that I had not, and went back to studying the better of the two photos of me.

At this point, Sir Humphrey walked in. His first question was also about the Foreign Office, which made me look up from the papers. Had something happened that was going to affect my meeting with the American ambassador?

‘Not directly,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘Though we do think that will give us an opportunity.’ Bernard nodded and said that he had sent someone out for really posh biscuits.

I was still confused as to what they were both concerned about. Sir Humphrey sat down and asked if he could be frank, which meant that something truly horrendous must have happened. I asked him to explain.

‘Well, Minister,’ he said, ‘it has been a busy night in the North Atlantic. Apparently an unidentified British fishing trawler entered the Iceland exclusion zone a few hours after your speech.’

‘How do they know the ship was British if it was unidentified?’ I asked. 

Bernard explained that when asked to identify itself by the Iceland Coast Guard, the trawler responded by playing a recording of ‘Rule, Britannia.’

‘Crikey,’ I said.

‘Yes, Minister,’ Humphrey said. ‘And while at the time the Icelandic officials assumed it was just an isolated incident, they have now read our newspapers and, well …’ He gestured to the stack of papers on my desk. The cartoon of me in a Royal Navy uniform suddenly took on new meaning.

‘My god,’ I said. ‘I mean, my god.’

‘Yes, Minister.’

I laughed, nervous. Surely Iceland wouldn’t take offense to a few rhetorical flourishes? 

‘Officially, of course,’ Humphrey said, ‘Our friends in Reykjavík have simply asked for reassurances that the NATO-mediated agreement that ended our last contretemps with Iceland …

‘The Third Cod War,’ explained Bernard.

‘Reassurances that the agreement continues to be respected on all sides, and that we have no intention of authorising any incursions into their economic zone,’ Humphrey finished smoothly. 

What was the unofficial response, I asked. 

‘They’ve deployed three gunboats with net-cutting equipment.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘Please tell me you have a plan.’

Sir Humphrey explained that various Foreign Office civil servants were busy explaining to their counterparts in Iceland that the Department of Administrative Affairs was not in fact in charge of the Royal Navy. 

‘They are somewhat hopeful of success,’ Humphrey said. ‘They are also briefing the ambassador directly and suggesting that you are known to sometimes get tired and emotional at such dinners.’ Humphrey paused. ‘Apparently the Foreign Secretary offered to make the phone call himself.’ 

I’ll just bet he did. Ah, well, better the whole of Iceland thought I had too many glasses of wine than we gave Iceland another chance to humiliate the Navy. In any case, Bernard suggested, the Navy was quite capable of humiliating itself, should that be needed for some reason. 

Bernard also gave me the draft of a statement for the press, which explained that my words had been taken out of context and the government fully supported our NATO ally Iceland’s right to control its economic zone. 

‘Thank you, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Now, is that all?’

‘Not quite, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘With the American ambassador due here in just a few hours to discuss the oil refinery, the Foreign Office would like you to request his help as well.’ I sighed as he continued. ‘A phone call to his Icelandic counterpart, perhaps, reassuring him of American support for the status quo.’

I nodded, and then suddenly had a thought. I sat back in my chair and put my hands together. Perhaps this week wasn’t totally a disaster, after all.

‘You know, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘I think there is something _you_ can do to help out as well.’ He looked at me, puzzled. ‘Yes, Minister?’

‘After all,’ I said, ‘Surely it would be much easier for us to gain the ambassador’s cooperation in this matter if we could give him good news about the oil refinery site.’

Sir Humphrey pursed his mouth. ‘You mean …’

‘I think we could arrange for that interdepartmental committee to meet this morning, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Clear up any remaining issues with putting the refinery on the cricket pitch, get the ambassador’s brother-in-law the waiver he needs?’

Sir Humphrey sighed. ‘Yes, Minister.’

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Rule, Britannia' incident actually happened during the Cod Wars, which sound like fiction but were an actual real thing that kept happening up until the late 1970s. [More here for anyone curious.](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/what-were-cod-wars)


End file.
